“Yes, miss,” said the soldier, saluting again, and never taking his eyes from her face. She turned to the two women in their restless fringe of clingers; and they, more sober because more hampered in their delight, thanked her devoutly, and moved off to learn what more they could elsewhere.
Meanwhile another figure had drawn near—a figure not unknown to Yvonne’s eyes.
When she first appeared Lieutenant Shafto, the English officer in command of the guard, was pacing the quarter deck, stiffly remote and inexpressibly bored. He had two ambitions in life—the one, altogether laudable and ordinary, to be a good officer in the king’s service; the other, more distinguished and uncommon, to be quoted as an example of dress and manners to his fellow-men. In London he had achieved in this direction sufficient success to establish him steadfastly in his purpose. Ordered to Halifax with his regiment, he had there found the field for his talent sorely straitened. At Grand Pré, far worse: it was reduced to the dimensions of a back-door plot. Here on shipboard it seemed wholly to have vanished. Nevertheless, for practice, and for the preservation of a civil habit, he had clung to his niceties. Now, when he saw Yvonne, his first thought was to thank Heaven he had been as particular with his toilet that morning as if about to walk down Piccadilly.
He fitted his glass to his eye.
“Gad!” he said to himself, “it really is!”
He removed the glass, and giving it a more careful readjustment, stared again.
“Gad!” said he, “it is none other! A devilish fine girl! She couldn’t be beat in all London for looks or wits. What does it mean? Given that cad Anderson the slip, eh? Discriminating, begad!”
Lieutenant Shafto had a definite contempt for Anderson, as a man who sat by the fire when he might have been fighting. If a man fought well or dressed well, Shafto could respect him. Anderson did neither. He was therefore easily placed.
“There’s something rich behind this,” went on the lieutenant to himself. “But, gad! there is a savour to this voyage, after all. There’s a pair of bright eyes—devilish bright eyes—to dress for!”
He hitched his sword to a more gallant angle as he stepped primly down the deck. He gave the flow of his coat an airy curve. He would have felt of his queue had he dared, to assure himself it was dressed to a nicety. He glanced with complaisance at his correct and entirely spotless ruffles. And by this he was come to mademoiselle’s side, where he stood, bowing low, his cap held very precisely across his breast.